Poetry
For GG
On my last bender I saw
Apollonius of Tyana
In my shaving mirror,
And gasped
Until the glass
Steamed over.
Then, corpse candles
In the meteora of a shucked pullover.
When the booze gives your brain a fracking:
What Pythian nonsense
From the deepest founts –
Lost luggage of the unconscious
In staggering amounts.
You must regain the thrill of the inane,
Like Bart Simpson’s joy
At burlap sacks.
Though sobriety is profane
There is workaday divinity
The Dionysian lacks.
Eamonn Stewart
He was born in 1964 in Belfast, and, while still at school, won first prize in the Irish Children’s National Poetry Competition, on two occasions. He trained in advertising photography and worked as a curator in a photographic gallery. Now, he is retired due to ill health, but occasionally works pro bono as a director of photography on student films. His passion these days is for large-format fine-art photography.